


Wheels Of Fire

by CaptainTulip



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A bit silly, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTulip/pseuds/CaptainTulip
Summary: Harry's been wanting to publish an autobiography for years - only problem is, he can't write for peanuts. Enter Draco Malfoy: broke, surly and the best ghost writer in the business.





	Wheels Of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Livejournal's HD Worldcup for Team EWE (Epilogue? What Epilogue?) for the prompt "The Chariot".

_prologue (will and won't)_

 

"This is — serious?"

Harry drums his fingers along his arm, irritated. "Yes," he says, stiffly. "What's the matter with it?"

The slick, polished edges of the table glint oddly in the sunlight filtering through the windows. Mr Knobbs purses his lips in a manner oddly reminiscent of Harry's Aunt Petunia. "Is it supposed to be ironic?"

Tempting as it is to shriek and fly out the door, Harry stays put. "No," he says evenly.

"So this is it. The final manuscript you want published."

"Yes, that's right." Harry moves his weight from one leg over to the other.

"Right," Mr Knobbs says vaguely, turning his eyes back to the manuscript Harry had slapped on his table only moments before. His glasses slide down his nose and Harry's hand jerks in an automatic motion to push them up, but the other man barely seems to notice, his forehead burrowed in concentration.

"And it's — it's all like this, is it?" The other man seems almost to be straining, as if the words are coming up against some sort of block before squeezing out of his mouth. There's something decidedly odd about his appearance; possibly the way his carefully clipped blonde moustache is separated slightly off-centre, or the way his nose curls into a defined point at the end. Although admittedly Harry doesn't find his face in any way displeasing.

He shakes his head, trying to focus. "What do you mean," he says slowly, watching as the publisher flicks disinterestedly through the pages, "'like this'?"

Mr Knobbs lets the manuscript fall onto his desk, slowly entwining his sweaty fingers together over the top of it. "Well, to put it bluntly, I'm afraid I'm going to have to renege on my promise."

 _But I'm Harry Potter_. It very nearly escapes his lips. "Why's that?"

Mr Knobbs does an odd sort of twitching motion with his thin lips, growing uglier and uglier by the second. "It's juvenile nonsense," he says at last, fixing Harry with a piercing gaze. "Publishing something like this will bring down the reputation that I've been struggling to maintain for years. A publishing firm has to concern themselves with consistency of quality."

"They also have to think about profit," Harry says petulantly. He sounds desperate even to his own ears.

"I am sorry, Mr Potter." There is a note of finality in his voice. Harry wants desperately to make a witty retort concerning his name, but his tongue is frozen in his mouth.  _You knob? Fuck you, knobhead?_

"Right," he says at last, in a particularly unwitty sort of way.

"I can't publish it."

"Right."

"But I congratulate you — an autobiography. The idea has merit."

"Right."

There is a short pause. Mr Knobbs picks up the manuscript again with a vague look of desperation and flicks through it one last time. The look on his face grows pained as his movements pause at a certain page. It's probably the part where the conversation between himself and Dumbledore abruptly ends because it was too painful to recall. The textbook assured him that abrupt endings to conversations were entirely theatrical and very often done, often to emphasise a particular line or point. For Merlin's sake, he'd been  _advised_.

"You change tenses quite a bit here."

Harry isn't quite sure what he means, but he nods seriously anyway. "For dramatic effect," he says, meaningfully.

"Right," Mr Knobbs echoes Harry's dubious reply. He slams the manuscript decisively shut again. "I am sorry, Mr Potter. I will say this, though, it's a privilege to have been offered this first, above all the other—"

"Oh, no, you weren't first."

Mr Knobbs blinks. "No?"

"No. There was the first one, and that one the other day..."

"Well, be that as it may, being the third—"

"Actually," Harry interrupts, counting it on his fingers behind his back. "Seventeenth." That is rather a large number, now that Harry thinks about it. One after another, all saying  _no_ , all with no idea what they're missing.

Mr Knobbs's eyebrow lifts up ever-so-slightly. "Seventeenth?"

"Yes. You're the seventeenth publisher I've been to."

"And they've all said no, have they?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Well,  _obviously_." Merlin, but this man was stupid. He needn't concern himself with his reputation, Harry thinks spitefully, because he hasn't a chance in hell of a successful career.

"Well, doing my best to maintain delicacy, Mr Potter — you might want to consider taking the hint."

Harry slowly folds his arms across his chest, trying as hard as he can to pull his five foot nine stature as tall as he can in an effort to appear both terrifying and reasonable at the same time. He's terribly irked by this man but equally aware that he's probably the last chance he's got. "And what hint is that?"

"That the written word isn't exactly your forte."

There's an awkward pause. Harry can't think of a single word to say.

"It's not for everyone, you know." A bead of sweat forms at the beginning of Mr Knobb's slicked-back hair and sidles down the side of his face. He grabs a handkerchief and dabs at it, ever so carefully. His eyes stay locked on Harry's throughout. "Your achievements are thus far extraordinary. You saved the world, Mr Potter. Isn't that enough?"

"Is it such a crime that I want to do something more with my life?" Harry snaps, feeling his calm starting to unravel. "Is it so odd that I want to do something else, ten years on? Every day in the papers, the same old crap about this new fling or this new spin on my relationship with Voldemort—" (not even a blink from old Mr Knobbs) "—or whatever it is they've decided to spew all over the tabloids. I'm sick of waking up every day to the same old shit — I want it to  _end_. The gossip, the shite — if I could just get  _my_  story out there, get the  _truth_ —"

"People don't want the truth."

"I'm going to be part of history for thousands of years to come!" Harry bellows, before checking himself. He hadn't meant to sound quite so conceited. "What I mean by that," he says carefully, "is that I would like there to be a true account of my life somewhere. Without the embellishment and the prejudice, so that the public will finally be able to just buy it and be  _satisfied_."

There's an odd look of pity on Mr Knobb's face. "They'll never be satisfied, Mr Potter."

" _Some_  will," Harry insists. He knows he's right. "Anyway, I have to do this. For my own peace of mind. So I can actually feel like I'm doing something about this instead of just sitting around on my arse while all the tits at the papers scream themselves hoarse about my weirdo perversions—"

"So it is true, then?" Mr Knobb's serious face lights up in a sort of childish glee.

"No!" Harry can feel his face growing hot. "Look, I can see this is a waste of my time," he snaps, and reaching over to the table, he snatches the manuscript off the desk before Mr Knobbs can fix his clammy hands to it once more. "I won't trouble you any longer."

"You might consider help," Mr Knobbs says as Harry spins on his heel, intent on walking out the door and dropping the whole idea for good. Harry is just about to utter a silent hex when Mr Knobbs quickly adds, "With the writing, I mean."

Harry pauses, still facing towards the door. "What sort of help?"

"Er," Mr Knobbs begins, unsurely. He sounds like he's about to be  _delicate_  again. "Well, you know. Someone to take the load off."

Harry may never be deemed an intellectual but he's not an idiot. He turns around, narrowing his eyes. "You mean, like hire some crummy ghost writer and ponce around acting like I've written something that I haven't?"

Mr Knobbs stiffens. "There's no need to use that tone about it," he says, clearing his throat. "It's a perfectly well-known practice. A Pen Pal — as we like to call them — writes the story for you, under your direction and ultimately under your name. You get all the fame and recognition of a good book without actually having to—"

"Pull my finger out?" Harry suggests.

"In a sense," Mr Knobbs agrees easily.

Harry shakes his head. "But what kind of person would want to do all the work and get no recognition?"

"There are a number of reasons people choose to become Pen Pals. The most common one is that they have a singular gift for writing but, for a personal reason, would prefer not to disclose their true identity to the public, through their name or physical appearance. It's a nice way to have satisfaction within oneself without the horror and glare of fame."

"Sounds great," Harry says glumly.

"Oh, it is," Mr Knobbs says, seeming to grow in his chair at the same rate as his enthusiasm. "You've read  _Cornelius Fudge: The Man Underneath The Hat_ , I trust?"

"Er — no."

"Hmm," Mr Knobbs hums, uncommitally. "I'm sure you have, you've probably just forgotten. At any rate, that particular masterpiece — over a million copies sold, you know — was done completely by our most successful Pen Pal. He's particularly good at bringing out the interesting features in an otherwise dull case."

"I—" Harry stops again. "Really?"

Mr Knobbs nods. "Oh, yes. He's efficient, too. The whole process is a breeze and works out well for all involved. Nice tidy sum for the writer, nice lot of prestige for the celebrity."

Harry twists his face into a frown. "But isn't that a little like — I don't know, compromising my artistic integrity?"

A blink from Mr Knobbs. "That depends on what you consider your artistic integrity to be," he says, looking unsure.

"I don't know; it's just something I heard my friend talking about." He and Ron have discussed many times what Hermione means with that phrase and they're still none-the-wiser. It definitely sounds good, though.

"Ah." Mr Knobbs appears pleased. "In that case, not at all. Your artistic integrity will remain entirely uncompromised throughout the entire thing."

"Good." Harry rolls a thought over in his mind. "But I'll still be able to say no to stuff, right? Like, if there's stuff I don't like."

"Power to veto?"

"Er, yeah."

"Oh, absolutely," Mr Knobbs assures him. "In fact, the first thing we do is send our celebrities off to meet our Pen Pals to discuss all the aspects of the book. How they want themselves portrayed; the feel of the book, the author's voice, the style and the time frame," he breaks off to grin. "Everything, really. This is ultimately  _your_  work, Mr Potter. And we want you to feel as involved as possible, right from the beginning stages."

"Bloody hell," Harry murmurs, a small smile spreading slowly across his face. "Where do I sign up?"

 

 

* * *

   
  


_chapter one (fight and flight)_

 

_"You always were a pointy-nosed git!"_

_"Fuck you, scarhead!"_

_"If I'd have known it was you, I never would have come here—"_

_"Well, there's the fucking door!"_

_"I wouldn't let you write my book for all the galleons in the world!"_

_"As if I give a shit about your self-indulgent stories, you stupid wanker!"_

_"Up yours, Malfoy!"_

_"Go sod yourself, Potter!"_

It isn't out of the question. Of course, with their respective lucky cards — one a celebrity, one from money — the majority of their profanity is likely to have fallen into disuse over the years. In the context of a boarding school, "wanker" is just as common as "I've left my ruddy parchment in my dorm, sir," but with people to impress and new lives to be carved out, "wanker" becomes as common as not having to be one. Draco can't even remember the last time he let a delicious piece of profanity spit from his mouth in a moment of pure juvenile irritation. Though of course he's going to have to control himself when the time comes — one wrong word and Potter will be out the door, his money firmly in hand. Better to keep it more formal. Mature.

_"Oh, dash it all, are you sure you won't come around?"_

_"Good Lord, old boy! You didn't think I'd actually want you to do it, did you?"_

_"Well, I'll admit I was harbouring the hope, old chap."_

_"Out of the question. We're as different as bedknobs and broomsticks."_

_"Of course, of course. Another tea?"_

Although considering they haven't yet hit their thirties, perhaps that's a tad premature. Draco still enjoys the odd tea, especially after a bit of an upset, but he hasn't yet sunk so low as to call anyone "old chap". Perhaps seeing Potter for the first time in, Merlin, almost ten years will bring out the perfect Malfoy heir in himself. Something about the slant of Potter's glasses on his slightly crooked ears or the small quirk at the corner of his lip would bring back a torrent of schoolboy memories, and they'd do nothing but stand there as they were assaulted with a myriad of remembered sights and smells — fresh grass, old blood, boneless arms, silk ties — before finally Draco would adopt his trademark smirk and that would be the end of that. The crafted aristocracy his father had always coveted so dearly, with generous lashings of sneer.

_"My, my, scraping the bottom of the barrel here, Potter. A book? Surely you could think of something less foreign to you than that."_

_"Could we just get on with this, Malfoy?"_

_"Sorry. I oughtn't test your patience — what with the Harry Potter figurine sale decline being what it is."_

Draco can almost feel the froth building up on his lips at the thought. He would win if it came down to a verbal battle, that was certain, though then Potter would probably flounce off and demand that the publisher assign him a different ghost writer and Draco would be back to eating beans for the next six months. Perhaps he should ensure that he remain the impenetrable, untouchable Draco of his inner eye, emotionless and cold, concerned with nothing but the cool hard cash. He isn't exactly wiping his bottom with galleons, after all.

Not that he'd want to, if he had the chance.

_"Look, Malfoy, you know we haven't gotten along in the past—"_

_"Let's talk money, Potter. Bucks. Moolah. Capital."_

Draco Malfoy as Al Capone is certainly an entertaining image but not one that is entirely viable, if Draco is to continue being painfully honest. With his spindly frame and tattered robes, he's hardly the man he used to be. Though of course that happened to Capone, too, in the end.

"Hello?"

Though admittedly, Capone got syphilis.

"Anybody home?"

Draco hasn't got syphilis.

"Hell-oo?"

At least he hopes not.

"Can anyone hear me?"

Nasty thing, magical syphilis.

"Knobbs Publishing sent me here."

Wait a minute.

"It's, uh, Harry. Harry Potter?"

 _Christ_. Christ,  _he's at the bloody door_! He's more than half an hour early, at that —  _for Christ's sake, who the hell comes half an hour early_? It is entirely possible for people to still be cooking or cleaning or showering or nipping out for some cheese and crackers half an hour before the designated time. Half an hour can mean the difference between afternoon and evening, between night and dawn, between beginning and end, between life and  _death_  for Merlin's sake — and here Potter is, flittering it away like it's nothing!

"You're half an hour early," Draco snaps, wrenching open his door irritatedly. Potter stands there on the step, blinking stupidly with a small piece of crumpled parchment in his hands. He looks remarkably unchanged since the last time Draco saw him, the same dull yet suspicious look in his eyes, the untamed hair, the bitten down cuticles of his nails. He even appears to be wearing the same shoes as he was last time, although that may just be wishful thinking on Draco's part.

"You," Potter says, somewhat unintelligently. Draco makes no effort to move, standing in the doorway, watching Potter and trying to decide if he'll even stay long enough to see the inside of Draco's flat. He hasn't cleaned it, so maybe it's better if they do conduct the conversation on the step.

"Me," Draco says, deciding for a moment to play the game. He hasn't in so long. In fact, he's been practically a recluse for a longer time than he cares to note; this is definitely the first person to ever show up on his doorstep like this. Of course, he knows that Harry has been sent here by the publishing company but it still gives him an odd sort of lingering satisfaction. "How are we today, Potter? Long time no see." Merlin, but it felt good.

"They didn't tell me it was you." One point for scenario one, then. All Draco would need to do is mutter a quick scarhead and he could register himself a Professor in Divination.

"They wouldn't," Draco replies, crossing one leg over the other. He can tell Potter is growing more and more uncomfortable by the second and he feels like he's basking in sunlight after an eternal winter. God, when was the last time he even had a conversation with another person? "My name doesn't exactly hold standing around here anymore."  _Worth less than a mudblood's_ , as his father had put it. When he was still alive.

"I'm not sure it ever did," Harry says coolly. He shrugs and slings the backpack Draco suddenly notices that he's carrying over his back. "Look, I think we both know this isn't going to work. So I'll just leave now and save us all some trouble—"

"Potter, wait." Draco mentally shakes himself. There was almost a desperate tone creeping into his voice there, which is entirely unbecoming, not to mention humiliating. He has to make Potter think he's the one who chooses for this situation to go ahead. There's not a chance in hell that he's going to beg. He may have lost his money, his social-standing and the ability to grow hairs on his chin (odd hex, that one) but he still has his dignity. "They're right, you know," he says. "I  _am_  the best in the business."

Potter rolls his eyes and Draco almost forgets they're not standing in the corridor outside Transfigurations. "Look, Malfoy," he says in a pained voice, "let's just leave this, okay? I've said my thank yous, you've said your apologies. We're even now. So let's just part ways and I'll find someone else to—"

"For Christ's sake, just let me do it," Draco blurts. His hand makes an abortive movement towards his mouth, as if he's just burped. Or vomited.

Potter blinks. "What?"

"I mean." He itches at his forearm distractedly and his left eye spasms, ever so slightly. He has to take control of this situation. "I'll do it."

"Do what?"

Draco sighs in irritation. "Do you always repeat people's questions back to them, or is that just for me?"

"What?" Potter's nostrils flare and his ears turn slightly pink, a habit he must have empathetically picked up from his Weasley. He almost feels a little sorry for Potter at that point, having to spend all those years with all that red hair. Though of course, it was his own choice.

"You know, where you pay me to write about you and then pretend you've done it all yourself? Just let me do it."

Harry's mouth falls open slowly. "But why the hell do you even want to? We're not exactly old school chums, Malfoy."

"Yes, well." He considers a number of options.  _Because after the war I was left with nothing; an emotional wreck five seconds away from throwing myself off a cliff. Because my parents died four years ago, attacked in the street in broad daylight, and I need to stop thinking about it or I'll go mad. Because I haven't been hired for over a year now and you can count my ribs from four metres away. Because you're the first person to talk to me face to face in over a month and it's like the first mouthful of warm shepherd's pie to a starving man. Because I'm fucked up and on edge and getting a bigger kick out of this conversation than anything I've ingested in the last three years. Because there's a piece of lint on your eyelash and it's doing funny things to my stomach._  "It's something of a delicate situation," he says at last.

"Delicate?" Potter repeats.

"Yes, delicate."

Potter raises an inexperienced eyebrow in reply. With a little work, it mightn't be too bad. "Meaning?" he says.

"Meaning  _private_ , obviously."

"Well," Potter says, folding his arms across his chest. "If you're not even going to be honest about this then there's no way I'm working with you on anything."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter," Draco snaps, irritated. "I need the money, alright? I'm broke."

There's nothing but the soft sound of leaves fluttering in the wind for a moment. "You're  _what_?"

He needn't act so surprised, Draco thinks, feeling a flicker of annoyance pass through him. "God, no wonder you need someone to help you write, you can barely hold a conversation—"

"Why the hell are you broke?"

Draco shrugs. "Postwar Redistribution of Wealth of '98." It should be enough.

"I — I see." It is. Draco notices Potter's eyes trailing for the first time down the smudge on Draco's trousers and the rip at the heel; the rough and inelegant shoes his feet are currently stuffed into and the bloodshot quality of his eyes. "Well, to be honest with you, Malfoy—"

"Look, Potter." Draco tries to keep his voice even. "You're not going to find anyone better qualified to do this. And not only that, I know you. That's got to count for something."

Potter hesitates.

"I was there during your childhood. I have the inside story from both your side and the other side — and I'd present an unbiased view. And haven't we both moved on?" Potter still has his trademark look of confusion on his face. Maybe he needs to emphasise his point a little. "I mean, isn't it time to show each other how we can—"

"For Christ's sake, Malfoy, al _right_ , you can do it," Potter snaps, shoving his hands into his pockets. Not nearly as dense as he looks, then. "But I still have my input when and where I want it, okay?" he says, folding his arms across his chest.

"If it's valid, of course," Draco replies smoothly.

"Well ... good," Potter says. Suddenly an odd look slinks onto his face and he looks suspiciously over Draco's shoulder into his house. "And our next meeting's going to be at my house," he mutters darkly. "I'm not coming back here again."

And with that (and a crack of Apparation), he's gone.  
  


 

* * *

   
  


_chapter three (the writing on the wall)_  
  


He'd spent a lot of time thinking about it. It isn't as though he just made the decision on a whim.

Whether an autobiography was a good idea in the first place, obviously. Months and months he'd agonised over it. Then, once it became clear that that was no longer an option, whether or not a ghost writer was going to create more problems than they would solve. Imagine it leaking to the media: Harry Potter Can't Even Write His Own Autobiography! Then when it turned out to be Draco Bloody Malfoy — for Christ's sake, what kind of card was that to be dealt? — whether he ought to bite the bullet and try him out or keep his sanity intact and turn away.

Then of course, whether to invite him to Harry's house or have it somewhere else. Whether it was actually going to work, whether they were going to be able to communicate ideas, whether Malfoy would be perceptive enough to understand what Harry was trying to get across, whether Harry would be articulate enough to be able to explain what he wanted. There were a myriad of things Harry had concerned himself with; most of all was how it would actually  _be_ between them, on a basic and emotional level.

Harry had expected some tension, of course. It was bound to occur between them. All that history, and all. He'd even expected some bickering, maybe a little banter. Possibly a heated argument or two. He knew Malfoy; he'd thought he knew what to expect. He figured he'd be exactly as he was two days before when they'd argued on his doorstep: sneering, petty, snarky, but at the end of the day he'd come through with what was needed. It would be hard work, he'd known that, but they would get through.

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for the Malfoy currently sitting across from him at the table.

"I mean," Harry says finally, "I'm sure you could get them to change it." He'd had another conversation with Knobb-head the day before and good old Knobbsie had officially informed him of the working title of The Book. Harry's trying to be "delicate" about it to Malfoy because it's more likely to impinge on him than on Harry, but at the current time Harry's not sure if Malfoy is going to scream or burst into giggles.

"Well, I mean, whatever," Malfoy replies, glancing away. He looks oddly ill. "It sounds like absolute shit but I can work with it, if need be." Two pieces of parchment fall out of notebook. He barely notices, rubbing a slow hand across his face. His eyes are blotched and weary and his cheeks are oddly red.

"I don't mind if you don't use it," Harry mutters. "It wasn't my idea—"

"I just — Potter, I just said I would, didn't I?" Malfoy drawls. "If they're the ones who're going to give me the dosh, I'm going to do what they say, aren't I? Besides, chariots of fire are used all over the place." Something appears to rise up in his throat and he forces it down with a grimace, before he takes a deep breath and continues as if never having paused. "You've got Phaeton and Phoebus, you've got passages in the Bible — Elijah, Elisha, Enoch, Ezekiel — you've got references from Milton, from Blake; there's plenty of stuff to draw from, it's not as if my only inspiration is that soul-destroying theme song from that bloody awful muggle film which is probably your favourite."

"Oh, go sod yourself, Malfoy."

Malfoy looks oddly pleased at this comment. His mouth quirks into a lazy smile. "So," he says, " _Wheels Of Fire_. What do you think?"

Harry opens and closes his mouth a few times. "What do you mean, what do I think? Aren't you being paid — an enormous amount, I might add — to have the thoughts for me? My thoughts are rubbish, apparently." It stills sends a ripple of annoyance through him. "Remember?"

"Potter," Malfoy says in a long suffering sort of voice, "if I don't have any input from you about this, I'm going to have to base it purely on my experiences of you. Do you really want a book about what a — a — a loser you are?" Malfoy says it like it took effort.

"Obviously not," Harry retorts, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, then." Malfoy stares at him expectantly, his quill hovering ever so slightly above his page. "Thoughts, Potter. I need them."

"Oh, well, Christ, I don't know," Harry says helplessly. "I want — I don't know," he says again. "I don't know if what I want is going to be good enough."

"What do you want?"

Harry sighs. "I don't want embellishments. I don't want to be shown as — as the hero. I mean, strangely enough, I sort of want what you said." Malfoy raises an eyebrow but Harry keeps pushing through, determined to get his point across. "I want people to know that I didn't have friends as a child, that I was a spindly backwards boy. That when I arrived at Hogwarts I was weird and crap at Potions and didn't get on with people. I want people to know that there was a lot of luck involved in what happened with my life, that I was helped extraordinarily by other people, that there's stuff about me that isn't amazing and marvellous. That I fumbled through life just like everyone else, and there were plenty of people who were smarter than me and stronger than me and who deserved to live more than I did but died anyway. I want people to see that I'm just a person."

"But at the same time maintain that sense of superiority so that they don't come up to you in the street and try to relate, right?"

"No!" Harry says, scandalised. Then. "Wait, can you do that?"

Malfoy shrugs. "Sure. If you want." He places his quill on his lap and leans forward. "Because honestly, Potter, you think things are bad now? Wait till they discover you're a 'real person'. You'll never get away." This thought appears to amuse Malfoy, and with a sudden start he throws his head back and lets out a raucous laugh.

"For fuck's — what the hell is the matter with you, Malfoy?"

Malfoy grins jovially. "With me?"

Harry pushes on despite his bafflement. "Yes, with you. You're acting bloody odd."

"Odder than usual?" Malfoy says, cocking his head to one side.

"Yes, odder than bloody usual," Harry mutters angrily. "You're being a right mentalcase."

"Is that so? Like I was last time?"

"No. You were — well, you weren't normal, but you were at least yourself."

"Hmm. Yes." Malfoy leans back in his chair, chewing on his quill. "Well, I did take a little something before I came."

"You  _took_  something? You mean, like drugs?"

"No, advice."

 _Advice_?

"That was a joke, Potter."

Oh.

"No, I just had a little bit of a drink," Malfoy says, sucking in a shuddering breath and holding out a theatrical hand. "I kept thinking, over and over and over, about how this was going to go and what you were going to say and whether you were going to throw me out and if I'd end up on the streets and whether my parents would hate me if they knew that I was doing this and what would happen if I suddenly got writer's block and whether I'd ever get hired again if I fucked this up and I worked myself into such a fit of anxiety and hysteria that it was either have a stiff something or crawl under my bed and never, ever come out. And I think it's fair to say we all need a little help now and again," he says, pointedly, itching at his nose.

Harry realises his meaning and lets out a snort of incredulous indignation. "It's hardly the same bloody thing!"

"Each to his own," Malfoy counters.

Harry groans. "I knew this was a bad idea, I never should have let this happen—"

"I've written something," Malfoy interrupts loudly. "Want to read it?"

"I — Malfoy, for Christ's sake, you're drunk—"

"Read it," Malfoy insists, shoving a piece of parchment under his nose. "I took your opening paragraph and reworked it a little. I think you'll like it."

"Malfoy..." Harry says, sighing, but he can't help reading as he catches sight of something he's seen written down more often than his own name.

_This is a little bit hard to say but I am just going say it so that it can be gotten over with. I am me and I am a person too and I think that some people forget that sometimes. Sure I did defeat the Dark Lord and it was probably the most important thing in this time but without the help of all of my friends and loved ones that would never have been possible because I am in debt to them for their strength and vicarious natures. In times of trouble they were there for me but this isn't the story of them although they will appear sometimes from time to time because they are important to me. Once I said to my friend Ron why are you friends with me and he turns to me and says because without you my world would suck and I say, yeah me too and then we just stood there together and maybe this isn't the most deep conversation you will ever hear about but it meant a lot to me and seeing as this book is about me I think it is important. Anyway, this is my story which starts at the beginning but not when I was born because I don't remember that._

It isn't exactly a masterpiece, Harry's willing to admit, but he still can't see the problem. It certainly has it's own creative style, and isn't that what everyone is always talking about?

He's just about to ask Malfoy if he might consider keeping the opening paragraph the way it is when he catches sight of another piece of writing jotted down in an untidy scrawl underneath.

_I have to admit, trying to write about yourself is like trying to ride a carriage with two horses pulling in opposite directions._

_On the one hand, you want to be frank. You want to present the side of yourself that no one ever hears about, the side that actually shows you're a human being like everybody else. You want to go on in detail about your faults and your flaws; your knobbly knees and pimply chin; your fits of temper and moments of despair; your friends and your family and all the people who actually did the things generally credited to you. There's a strong, almost insatiable urge to let people know the "truth" about your inner self; to divulge secrets like the great Albus Dumbledore handed out sweets._

_Yet at the same time you're intent on the idea that people won't just walk away having had a pleasant afternoon of light reading. You've had experiences that others haven't had. You've made decisions that others couldn't even begin to comprehend. You've loved and sacrificed and fought so hard you were literally at the brink of death, and you have a story to tell. And the idea that this story might be buried in a pile of false modesty and skinned knees is a thought you can hardly bear._

_So if you're prepared, reader, I invite you to share the reigns as I attempt to take you along the bumpy road that has been my life; starting, where all good stories must start, at the beginning._

Harry can't think of anything to say for a full minute. "I haven't got pimples on my chin," he finally blurts.

Malfoy's face falls. "Is that all you have to say? Nothing about the wording, the language, the feel? I spent over an hour last night, Potter, just sitting around with a painted on scar and a pair of glasses, just simply trying to get into your mindset, and the only comment you make is about pimples?"

It does sound quite bad when Malfoy puts it like that. "Well—"

"You do, anyway," Malfoy says loudly over the top of him. "I can see one right now."

"Do not," Harry snaps, unthinkingly.

"Do too."

"Do not!"

"Do too — want me to pop it?"

Harry is just about to reply when he realises that he's being a complete idiot arguing with someone so completely intoxicated. He shakes his head and sighs. "Just go home, Malfoy," he says softly.

"What?"

"Go home, have something to eat and go to bed."

"Why?"

Harry grinds his teeth. "Because you're  _drunk_ , that's why!"

Malfoy screws up his face into an oddly amused frown. "Someone's clearly in acne-denial."

"Malfoy," Harry says warningly.

"Alright, alright, I'm leaving." He stands up, stretching slowly and languidly like a silver cat. "There's some more there, if you want to read it, by the way."

"I don't—"

" Just read it, okay?"

Harry sighs. "Fine." He stands up. "I'll walk you to the door."

"No need, Potter. I can make my own way." He stumbles haphazardly to the door. "Call me if you like it, okay?" he says over his shoulder.

 _No, I bloody won't_. "We'll see."

With a final half-hearted wave, Malfoy steps out onto the porch and slams the door behind him.

"Bloody hell," Harry mutters to himself, and collapses down upon the chair again.

 

* * *

   
  


_chapter five (the lion and the serpent)_  
  


If Draco is honest with himself, he was hardly surprised when Potter's head appeared in his fireplace a week later. Potter would have to be a complete moron to not to realise that Draco's work is infinitely better than his own, even if Draco'd had to stupify it as much as possible. His first draft had been exquisite; every word just slid perfectly from a thoughtling in his brain to a perfectly encapsulated idea on the page, until he finally read it over and realised Potter probably didn't know what half the words meant and certainly wouldn't have a hope in hell of convincing anyone that the ideas had come from him. Draco had filed it away for later use — change the name and he could have a bestselling fiction novel on his hands — and begun anew, this time with a scar and glasses in tow.  _My name is Harry Potter_ , he had chanted to himself again and again as he held his quill poised over the parchment,  _and contrary to popular belief, thoughts actually occur in my brain_. And it had worked a treat.

Their meetings didn't exactly become easier. Draco decided that on the next one he wouldn't have anything at all to drink, but he worked himself up into such a frenzy before leaving that he smashed one of the few pieces of good china he had left in his household and was forced to spent the next half-an-hour cleaning it up non-magically (or, his mother had always taught him, it would tarnish) so that when he finally arrived at Potter's house, he was almost an hour late and in a towering rage. After about five minutes, Potter hadn't explicitly told him to leave, but the message was clear enough. Draco had left what he'd done on the table again and apparated back home for a long shower and a bottle or two of whiskey.

The next time, Potter organised for them to meet at lunchtime. (Potter always organises the meetings; it's their default position. Probably because Potter assumes Draco doesn't have a life outside of The Book. He's right.) He set out bread, cheese, meat and salad and an array of spreads and dips, and Draco had been forced to leave abruptly when the sight of Potter's tongue snaking out to lick up a stray drop of mayonnaise caused a rather inappropriate stirring in his nether regions.

Over time, as was inevitable, he found out a vast array of things about Potter; probably more than anyone ever needed to know. The usual facts, of course, like where he went to school and what his family life was like, but also obscure things that were utterly useless but wonderfully engaging at the same time, like that he secretly likes grass-flavoured Bertie Botts Beans and that he can't stand the term "in a manner of speaking."

"It's wanky," Potter had insisted the first time that Draco had tried to use it, and that very clearly was that.

He's found out a lot about Potter's personal life, too. Sometimes through pushing and prying and poking, going on at him before he finally relents and spills the beans. Other times where Draco would be sitting, scribbling down the discussed ideas as quickly as his quill could write them, and suddenly Harry would open his mouth and start chatting away about the most private and personal details of his life, and Draco would just sit gobsmacked until he realised that Harry had stopped and was staring back at him, asking why on Earth he wasn't writing anything down.

"Ginny left me, you know," he said one such time. Draco was so busy writing that he hardly noticed.

"Pardon?" he said, distractedly.

"She left me. A few years ago, now."

Draco hadn't thought before muttering, "I'm your employee, Potter, not your friend."

"Yeah, I know. I just — you're the only person I really talk to these."

Which was ridiculous. Potter could have said anything:  _I thought it would be relevant, I'm just trying to give you background info, I'm trying to get you into my frame of mind_. But he didn't; just that soft, vulnerable  _you're the only person I really talk to these days_.

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco had scoffed. "What about your friends? Weasley, Weasley, Weasley, Weasley and Weasley?"

"Ha ha," Harry said dryly. "I don't know, we don't really keep in touch. Ron and Hermione went off for a honeymoon nine years ago and didn't come back."

Draco's mouth fell open. "They're  _dead_?"

"Oh, no, no, no. They just went over to Australia and decided they didn't want to leave."

"Oh. Well, what about girlfriends, boyfriends? Don't you have any of those?"

"Not really. I'm sort of indefinitely single these days."

 _That's pathetic. What a sad, lonely case you are, Potter._  "Same here," Malfoy had found himself murmuring, and after a brief moment of comfortable intimacy they started discussing what sort of a part Ginny ought to play in The Book.

For a while it meandered along haphazardly, with Potter firecalling him whenever he wanted a "consultation", as he likes to call them. At first they met once or twice a week, and then it started to increase to three or four. A few times Draco just turned up at Potter's doorstep, parchment and coffee in hand, whereupon Potter would desperately feign having to put aside another important activity, until finally they both just gave up the pretense that they had anything else in their lives apart from their consultations and Draco just started turning up every day at eleven in the morning and staying until Potter kicked him out.

There are a number of a odd moments of intimacy. Sometimes they revert to stories about school and spend hours and hours in a delirious state of bittersweet nostalgia, quill and parchment forgotten. Sometimes they'll both read for a piece of parchment at the same time and it's like a jolt of electricity goes through the both of them. One time Draco told a joke and they'd both laughed themselves silly, before lapsing into a silence that consisted of nothing more than the two of them sitting across from one another and staring.

Draco looks up from the piece of parchment he's working on to see Potter gazing out the window, deep in thought. In the soft light and hazy edges of their mid-evening wine, he looks beautifully striking.

Potter catches sight of his gaze and clears his throat. "I suppose we should call it a day," he says softly. "It's almost midnight."

Swallowing thickly, Draco nods. "Indeed, we should." A smile tugs at his lips. "You need your beauty sleep, after all."

Potter chuckles softly and stands up at the exact same time as Draco does, and their knees brush against each other. "Sorry," Potter murmurs almost inaudibly and quickly turns around, heading towards the door. Draco would have been able to see the pink of his ears from the other side of a pitch black ballroom.

"Well, once again, thanks for your help," Potter murmurs, opening his smoothly polished from door and holding it open for Draco. "It's — well, it's been a nice evening."

"Yes, it has," Draco agrees, stepping onto the porch step. He's just about to turn and leave, maybe toss a goodbye over his shoulder if he feels like it, when he realises there's an odd sense of expectation lingering in the air, keeping him rooted to the spot. Potter seems to feel it too, his ears turning pinker and pinker by the second.

"Er," he says, and Draco feels equally articulate. He lets out an awkward chuckle.

"Guess I'll see you tomorrow," he says.

"Yeah," Potter says, a little too quickly.

Draco opens his mouth to make a joke about how this is almost like the feeling on the first date when you say goodbye for the night until Draco realises with a start that that is exactly how this feels. He suddenly feels mortified, aware that Potter probably has no idea of his sexual orientation.

"I feel like I'm suppose to kiss you," Potter suddenly blurts out. "It's the oddest feeling ever but I can't help it."

Draco lets out a laugh of giddy relief. "I feel exactly the same way," he admits, feeling exponentially better. If Potter feels it, then it isn't just his pureblooded perversions.

"I — I mean, do you want to?"

The question takes a moment to sink in. "What?"

"Well, if that's what it feels like then ... maybe we ought to."

Whatever you said about Potter, you couldn't fault his intentions. Pure as gold. "I..." Draco is at a loss for words. "Well," he says, feeling his heart do an extra giddy beat. "Alright."

He's not sure who leans in first, but suddenly Potter's lips are against his own; soft, pliable and slightly wet, and it's the most delicious thing Draco has tasted in all his life. He only has a second to notice that Potter's hand has come to rest on his chest before Potter is pulling away, gazing at him with a curious expression on his face. His heart beats quickly, four times, underneath Potter's hand before he sucks air into his chest again.

"Well." A short laugh. Everything feels slightly surreal. "That was interesting."

Potter nods his head emphatically and presses his lips against Draco's once more. Draco doesn't know what to do; whether this is platonic or sexual or whether Potter has finally lost his marbles like the rest of them. Draco is just considering throwing caution to the wind and slipping his tongue out to lick at Potter's lips when the other man pulls away once more.

"I, ah," he says, his cheeks burning brightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Draco's heart is thumping in his chest like a madman but he tries to take control of himself, nodding stiffly. "Until then," he says, and with brief smile he turns around and walks off into the night. He can feel Potter's eyes on his back, and it isn't until he is at least twenty metres away that he finally hears the soft click of Potter's door.

_Merlin's balls._

 

* * *

   
  


_chapter six (the eye of the snake)_

 

It's half past five and Draco still hasn't come to the door. Harry feels like there's a piece of lead sitting at the bottom of his stomach.

He got up at six this morning; had a long shower and did all the hygenic things he usually only reserved for public holidays — clipping his toenails, putting conditioner through his hair, shaving carefully with a sharp blade. He'd spent a whole fifteen minutes brushing his teeth and put on his best set of trousers, along with the only shirt that actually matched his complexion. He'd tidied the house, setting his barely-used cleaning supplies to vigorous work, mopping and dusting and scraping and scrubbing. He'd transfigured an old newspaper into a vase of flowers. The flowers had remained black and white but they looked nice enough when he set them down on the table. He'd popped into town to buy some fresh parchment and ink, and decided to cast a charm on his eyes to temporarily repair the vision so he didn't have to wear his glasses.

Lunch is all set out on the table inside. It was fresh and glorious when he'd set it out at half-past ten; now it's covered in flies and the lettuce looks like Harry feels.

He can't think of what he did wrong. It must have been the kiss.

 _I shouldn't have forced myself on him_ , Harry thinks bitterly, watching the cars go past. At about two in the afternoon he'd moved to his doorstep, just in case Draco had knocked on the door and Harry hadn't heard him, and he was waiting outside for Harry to come back.

That really was his final hope. An empty doorstep had turned Harry's insides to sludge.

At a quarter past six, Harry gingerly gets up and goes inside. He kicks off his shoes, throws the flowers into the bin along with all his hopes for the day, and collapses down on the couch.

At six-thirty, Harry stands up again, and starts collecting up all the rough bits of parchment from around the house. He slowly and systematically picks each and every single one up, and slowly and methodically starts shredding them to pieces.

At a quarter to seven, Harry throws them all into the bin.

At twenty-past seven, Harry watches a program about the mating habits of sheep for half an hour.

At ten past eight, Harry feels like dying.

"I can't believe you gave up on me so quickly," a voice from behind him mutters. Harry turns around and with a throb of thrill and anger, he sees Draco standing in his kitchen, smirking like he's been there the whole time.

"Where've you been?" Harry snaps, pulling himself up from the chair.

"Oh, you know," Draco says, evasively. "Here and there."

Suddenly Harry is grabbing his jersey, pushing him against the wall, and they're both panting in anger, sparks flying and chests heaving, and suddenly there's a different kind of tension in the air, and without quite knowing what he's doing, Harry pushes his head forward and slams their lips together.

Draco wrenches away. "Potter, what are you—"

"I waited around for you for nearly six hours," Potter says breathlessly, pressing their heads together. "And now you just flounce up to the door and look at me, with no idea of all the trouble you've caused or all the shit I've been through or  _anything_  because you're too fucking selfish—"

"The  _trouble_  you've had? What,  _waiting_  for someone for a few hours? Boy, sounds like a tough life!"

"Is that what you think?" Potter says, licking Draco's lips roughly. "That my life has been some sort of fairy tale? Even after all this time we've spent together, talking about it?"

"Well, it has been, hasn't it?" Draco counters. "Victory after victory, triumphing over adversaries — your whole bloody life story is just one long tale of success after success—"

"You think it's been easy?" Potter snaps, and in complete contradiction to his tone presses his mouth against Draco's, which is hot and heavy and exquisite. "I've struggled so hard, Malfoy, so  _bloody_  hard," he gasps against Draco's lips. "It seems bloody glorious all written down but basically everything has been  _shit_. When the war was finally over and the Dark Lord finally gone, I didn't feel any sense of relief or happiness — I just wanted to curl up and die myself." He presses his mouth violently against Draco's own, as if trying to suck strength out of him. Draco stands there, shoved up against the wall, seeming to be utterly unable to move. "Nothing about my life has truly been good, has truly been  _mine_ , has truly made me honestly, wholly and selfishly happy before you—"

"Christ, Potter," Draco gasps, weakening in Harry's arms.

"And you're trying to tell me that this means nothing to you?

"I—" Draco breaks off, suddenly looking anxious. "I don't know, okay?" he snaps. "I just — I didn't know how you felt and I couldn't face seeing you again if you were just going to say hello and everything was going to be all the same and we were going to keep last night some dirty little secret—"

"But couldn't you have at least  _tried_?"

"What do you think I'm doing here?" Draco retorts. "This morning when I got up, I couldn't stand the thought that I was going to come along and lose something else that I thought I had. That you were going to decide that this wasn't going to work, that you were going to push me away, and I was going to be left with  _nothing_  again." Draco shakes his head. "But then I thought of you, and what you would do, Potter — in all your glorious Gryffindor idiocy, charging around where you're not wanted or needed — and I couldn't help but at least come and  _try_." And suddenly a startling smile breaks out on Draco's face. "And it worked, Potter. I hate to admit it but your stupid closing paragraph was right." He sucks in an uneven breath. "Sometimes you do just have fight for what you want."

Harry can't help it; his face stretches into the biggest grin he's had in years. "You wrote that stupid paragraph, you know."

Draco rolls his eyes, his grin toothy and utterly beautiful. "Yeah, but I was being  _you_. That's the whole point."

A soft chuckle escapes Harry lips, followed by a loud gasp as Draco squirms suddenly in his arms.

"Potter," Draco says slowly, his grin slowly morphing into an incredulous smile, "are you getting  _hard_?" He grinds his hips against Harry's, slowly and precisely, and Harry's mouth falls open at the deliciousness of the feeling of a hardening cock against his own, even through his trousers. "You pervert, you  _are_!"

"I — this — we —" Harry gasps, barely able to form a coherent though let alone a sentence. "You're hard too!"

"Yeah," Draco says softly, and it's so utterly erotic that Harry can't help but press his mouth to Draco's once more, groaning in utter abandon. Draco doesn't stop him this time, enthusiastically kissing back, hot and wet and open-mouthed and desperate and Harry starts to feel dizzy with happiness.

"Want to touch you," he whispers, shaky hands grabbing the top of Draco's trousers and desperately unbuttoning them.

"Yeah," Draco says again simply, all of his delicious articulation apparently gone in favour of grinding himself against Harry. "God, Harry,  _yes_ ," he moans when Harry finally gets his trousers open and slips his hand inside Draco's underpants, grasping Draco's rigid cock and stroking it as best he can with limbs weak from pleasure. "Want to feel you," Draco gasps, "against me — Harry, fuck, before I come all over you, open your —  _fuck, yes_..."

 

* * *

   
  


_~~epilogue~~  chapter nine (the man with two faces)_  
  


It isn't until he is holding the book in his very hands as it stares up at him with innocent brutality, almost five years after beginning the damn thing for the first time, that Harry takes a second to consider the impact that it could have upon the world.

"Funny little thing," he murmurs, nudging a finger at the cover. His face stares back up at him — black and white save for the green eyes and the blazing flames behind him — and Harry chuckles. It really is a lame title. Especially considering now it doesn't make sense in the slightest.

"Everyone's going to think I'm an idiot," Harry murmurs.

"What?"

Harry looks up. "They're going to think I don't know the difference between a biography and an autobiography."

Draco raises his eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, do you?"

"Sort of," Harry says with a grin. "It looks good," he says, handing the book to Draco, who pulls a face.

"Ugh," he says, rolling his eyes. "It looks like a load of crap," he says, but he's smiling. "It'll be in every magical home by the end of the week."

"There'll be a million rumours spreading around about it," Harry adds. "The papers will have a field day."

"Mmm," Draco agrees, his eyes twinkling. "Does that upset you?"

"Not in the slightest." Harry takes a step closer to Draco, pulling him into his arms. "Let them have their fun. And I'll have mine." He buries his face in Draco's neck, languidly inhaling the scent of the other man.

"I'm not sure I like being known as "your fun", Potter," Draco says in a mock-haughty voice.

"We'll see about that," Harry murmurs, and pulling him tight against his body, the book falls forgotten onto the ground as their lips come crushing together.

 _Wheels Of Fire: The Official Autobiography of Harry Potter  
by Draco Malfoy_.

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic here: https://raitala.livejournal.com/39346.html


End file.
